


One to Consume

by dollylux



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, M/M, Murder, Mutilation, Serial Killers, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Dexter has a romantic evening out.





	One to Consume

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts).



> Another love letter for my beloved Miss Pink. I'm yours from Reno to Milwaukee and every single truck stop in between.
> 
> Title from AFI's 'Sacrifice Theory'.

Dexter doesn’t really do holidays. 

Holidays mean expectations, mean rehashing memories and upholding traditions and dealing with other people’s emotions. They’re exhausting.

Valentine’s Day isn’t the worst one. Not by a long shot. The concept of romance utterly escapes him, so he’s very rarely in a situation where he’s expected to cough up flowers and a dinner reservation and a sappy card. It’s always forced - always. 

Nothing genuine that comes out of Dexter Morgan is rose scented or rhymes. He prefers his pink and red to come from within.

It’s been sixty days, eighteen hours, and twenty-two minutes since he killed his brother. The only time he feels his own heart these days is when he thinks of him.

 

Maybe it’s the most unromantic thing on the planet to kill someone on Valentine’s Day, but Dexter’s a little excited. It definitely always feels like a courtship. Like he’s being seduced by someone’s sins, their secrets. Being invited in with a knowing smile and spread legs.

Darla Sterling kills kids. She runs a daycare and wears pastel cardigans and attends church twice a week, but no amount of whispered prayers or knee length beige skirts can take away from the fact that she puts arsenic in applesauce and has a bodycount of six; bodies so small, the caskets had to be special made. 

The capture had been so easy, Dexter’s almost embarrassed for her. He’d had to sit through five minutes of the end of the Wednesday church service (sermon topic: A Love Written in Blood) and flash her a smile in the parking lot, and she’d melted like ice on the pavement in July. Twenty minutes later, she’s in the basement of Sweet Angels Daycare, naked except for cellophane and duct tape.

She’d started praying the second Dexter ripped the tape off her virgin mouth.

“Save it,” he says, removing the scalpel from his kit and checking it over for smudges or stray flecks of dry blood. Nothing. It glints in the cheerfully bright light. Yellow walls and pink construction paper flowers peek from behind the plastic tarp covering the room.

He takes his time going through her victims, making sure she sees the pictures he’d collected of them, from their last smiling photo with their families to each full body autopsy photo, their faces still and pale. 

Dexter swears the blood drop that spreads between the glass slides is brighter than normal. Darla here is a special kind of evil.

He knows he’s not alone when he presses the blade of his knife to one side of her neck, and he savors her fear, the way she’s shaking even though she’s completely immobile. There’s no movement in the room, not a breath drawn or a changed scent. But he knows.

A brother always knows.

“Dex, you shouldn’t have,” Brian’s voice says softly against his ear, so very real that he swears his hair ruffles. He closes his eyes and stills his blade and imagines the warmth of him, long and pressed to his side. Any space between them has always been imaginary, something perceived by anyone watching, but they’d always known better.

Dexter breaks in some place he’d only just discovered, some place that had laid dormant in the years where Brian wasn’t even a ghost to him. The tip of his knife digs in. The room fills with the scent of fresh blood.

Brian is behind him now, taller than Dexter by several inches so he feels enveloped. The arms that come around him are lean but could hold back the breaking tide that would end the world. Dexter leans back and it’s then that he becomes a believer; he doesn’t fall. He’s held.

“Biney,” he sighs, and it hurts. Feels like a needle to a sore vein. He’s almost forgotten that he’s murdering someone right now.

“All this for me?” There’s a smile in Brian’s voice, a lightness that Dexter doesn’t have in him to make up. Lips slide over his scruffy cheek, sweeter than a kiss. His hands are encased in longer ones, making him feel graceful for the first time in his life. “I didn’t get you anything, little brother.”

“Help me,” Dexter murmurs, caught up in the heat of this, of the absence of space between their bodies, in the way he swears on everything he finds sacred and true that he feels the hot burn of his brother’s cock nestled in the tight curve of his back. “Do it with me.”

“What?” Darla sobs, the words already gargled and bubbly. Dexter is filled with a rage so sudden that only Brian’s hands pulling up on his own keeps him from slicing clean through to her spinal cord.

“Shut up,” he snarls. Even as a baby, he’d been possessive of his time with Brian. Dexter doesn’t share well.

“Gentle.” Voice like lowtide, slow and sonorous and rocking with the pulse of their bodies. Back and forth, back and forth, throb throb throb. The deep press forward makes him groan, makes him taste blood when he bites into his bottom lip.

“Do it,” Dexter whispers.

Sharp teeth edges line up along Dexter’s throat just as they press the knife into Darla’s neck together and slice across, taking their time so that it hurts, so she feels every centimeter, so she’s choking on her own blood long before the blade withdraws.

He never slices their throats. The slow intimacy of it is overwhelming.

“You smell it?” Brian says, teeth still dragging over the pulse of Dexter’s heart in his neck, his breathing ragged. “It smells different when they’re still alive. The heat has a scent.”

Dexter takes a long, savoring breath, the air filled with the thick metallic brine of blood, and he swears it’s gushing in time with his heart, with their hearts, with the neverending attempt of their bodies to melt together, to stay together somehow.

“Touch it.” Dirty talk, 900 number words, and Brian is temptation itself, so seductive that Dexter doesn’t even resist as Brian drags off his latex gloves and brings Dexter’s hands to the overflowing fount of scarlet pouring from Darla’s gaping neck. It’s warm and living and thick like honey, and Brian’s fingers slide between his own and force their joined hands into the gash, fingers pushing through gulping muscle and tissue and so much blood that Dexter shivers, caught between the table and Brian’s ballet body.

“Imagine what we could’ve been together, Dex. The fun we could’ve had. The nights just like this where you don’t belong to anybody but me.”

“Nobody else would have me anyway,” Dexter laughs, huffed and bashful and tucked in the safety of his big brother’s arms. An apology wells up in his throat just as sure as blood in Darla’s, but an unmistakable kiss to the side of his mouth quiets him, stills him.

Darla convulses weakly beneath them. Death throes.

“Her heart’s about to stop,” Brian whispers, hot against his skin. His cock feels like its own heart against Dexter’s ass. He’s never wanted so much, never wanted everything before. He feels greedy, a child once again. Always one, perhaps, with Brian. “Feel it?”

“Yeah,” Dexter says back, breathless. They’re pushing into the wound now, fucking it with tangled fingers, and Brian shakes behind him the second Darla goes still and quiet, a little death passing between the three of them and coming to rest in Dexter. 

His mouth is already open when Brian’s fingers bump against his bottom lip, demanding to be let in. Dexter couldn’t say no, knows that word is not meant to be spoken between them. He knows that now. Brian thrusts into his mouth like it’s a fatal wound, too, feeding Dexter lifeblood and petting his tongue to sweeten it. Dexter drinks and laps and sucks until Brian’s fingers are wrinkled like bathtime and his skin tastes like nothing but Dexter’s spit.

“Now that was romance,” Brian says, lip slick sounds in Dexter’s ears as he licks Dexter’s spit off his fingers. The smile in his voice fills the space behind Dexter’s closed eyes, and the nape of his neck gets the goodbye kiss before the room is cold again, and Dexter is the only one breathing.

The front of his pants are soaked, and his balls are throbbing. Empty. The knife falls from the edge of the table and clatters on the floor. He clutches the metal edge and rides out the shivers, still warmed in the ghosted trap of Brian’s arms and safe in all their secrets.

Blood tastes like love on his tongue for hours after.


End file.
